Let slip the dog afar…

I posted the following on Instagram late last night:

Any human being that can write such a sentence as that below – especially in the context it bookends… – is a saint: of emotion; of love; of wordsmithery; of so many things that are so vitally important to me. And yet it is just one of thousands that move in the same way: a quality of writing so rarely encountered; a quality of life, a quality of love… ditto.

“I walked for hours in the forest that night though I don’t remember the trees.”

Thank you @paulbesleywrite for the read of the year; maybe even the decade. Still got some way to go (after over a hundred pages, tonight); but feel that I am on the journey with you.

It was yet another sentence in his book, The Search, yet another situation, yet another way of defusing a tightly-packed grenade of emotion carefully, thoughtfully, differently, vividly, and never over-statedly, never explosively. Even the sharpest, toughest, most brutal events are gently smuggled into your brain, and only then do they suddenly evolve from pocket-sized Rembrandt etchings seen in near darkness to the most audacious, brightly-lit, multi-hued Jackson Pollock and Van Gogh canvases.

A Tale of Two Kitties…

A rather camera-shy Petronius the Arbiter

The first cat is the steepest…

I was outside Darwen rather than Damascus: however, the conversion took place just as abruptly, with only a few seconds warning. One moment I was being asked…

– How would you feel about looking after Jay for a while?

[All of my friend’s cats – and horses – were named after birds: Blackbird – ‘Blackie’ for short – a rook-coloured bruiser wearing white gloves (probably concealing knuckle-dusters); and big bullying brother to Kestrel – a beautiful, mournful tabby, with the same gleaming toes; and currently Jay – who, not being a blood relative, was beaten up by both of them almost daily, and therefore frequently went missing for days, and always came home injured. Why Kestrel didn’t also fly away – without the “coming home” bit, of course… – I shall never know for certain. Timidity is one possibility; but likely also some warped form of sibling loyalty.]

Unless a man starts afresh about things…

Loweswater at dawn, frozen in time

My first walk of the new year: and to a location now – as it will be forever – so very near to the centre of my heart and melded so very closely with my mind. Yet, on Saturday, it was clothed so tightly in frost, and held so singularly still, that its icebound enchantment freshly conjured even more enthralling memories to be layered, interlaced, with those soothing ones already possessed. Not just visual – such as the moon-glinted mint-white of the fields below fells of dry-cured bacon; and audible – the rushing becks, the joyful birds; but also, of course, sensual – the ice tightening my face like Botox; the frozen, sogged soil crunching beneath my boots, spongily, surprisingly, bearing my weight… – along with the absolute astonishing absence of Aeolus or his team of Anemoi: their breaths apparently held abnormally tightly, or at least currently (although Eurus would soon awaken: his lazy easterly breeze drawing disappointing clouds to mask the valley from the sun – whose rise I had come to witness, of course… – as well as stinging my eyes on my return…). The place looked and felt new-made: its birth accompanied by nature’s gently twinkling fanfarades!

Lockdown diary #4: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below…

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
– Shakespeare: The Tempest (V.i.88-94)

As with so much horticultural minutiae, it was Felix – still not yet accustomed to having the run of the garden (or – as he must see it – patrolling ‘his’ domain) – who first spotted the tiny creature, and then alerted me (his unrealized chaperon) to its hovering presence; swiftly (and coincidentally) followed by The Guardian’s consistently high-quality Country diary column. I say “tiny”… – but the “creature” in question has a big name in so many respects: “Bombylius major, the large or dark-edged bee‑fly”. Nevertheless, it is small. Yet another of nature’s brilliant and beautiful works of precision engineering, and perfect, startling, purpose. [Bee-flies are sometimes called “humble-flies”. But never, sadly, “humble-bees”… – an eponym reserved for bumble-bees: who, if their buzz (or hum) is anything to go by, are actually quite assertive!]

For going out, I found, was really going in…

Yesterday – coupled with a developing desire to prove my brittle body once more able – the weather beckoned me far beyond the longing windows of home: with the high-cloud-shrouded sun at my back, and a sluggish breeze easing its surging heat. My first thought upon fastening the garden gate was of the church as objective; but primal instinct pushed me further – to revisit last year’s iterative ascent through Tysoe Hangings, and onwards to Upton House. With every initially uncertain step taken with conscious pain and caution, I crossed the main road close to Church Farm Court; eased my rucksacked self through the metal gate; and prayed that my body (and resolve) would be resilient enough. All I could do was walk, and discover if I could also achieve my heart’s desire….

Where, last year, there had been wheat, was now linseed (and where there was linseed – on the plateau beyond Sugarswell Cottages – I would find wheat): a four- to five-year rotation that seems increasingly fashionable and profitable. Sandy soil under this brilliant cobalt crop was beginning to fissure, though; and the meadow’s margins were dune-like in their desiccation. (Even in so sparse a crop, skylarks nested: their sweet purling such a soothing soundtrack.)

The soul that sees beauty…

Sunday
There is a hierarchy, it seems, to Tysoe’s with-sun-rising birds. As the first sodium-bright slash of dawn slices the horizon, the barn owl – its wings the shade of the night-mourning sky it haunts – yet circles the windmill: peeved, perhaps, that my presence has quiesced the small creatures in the verges, trembling umbellifers, ruffling daisies. The hedges here serenade me with the river-runs of goldfinch; the gossip of sparrows; the bossy robin; the caution of blackbirds. The crops, a sea of skylarks: effervescent; ubiquitous. But none yet leave their roosts. It is the raptors which rise pre-eminently on the cool air: a lone buzzard, one lazy, subtle flap of its wings propelling it yet higher. A glint-eyed kestrel shearing across my path; grasping the dead branch of a wayside oak from which to study me. There is nothing here to interest such a hunter; but yet he waits until I have passed before busy wings pull him beyond my sight.

A male pheasant, paranoid, dull-witted, staggers away from me: its drunken pose and anguished cacophonies aimed at naught; only rendering it more manifest. Thirty paces I tail this manic meandering, before remembrance of cover emerges between those frenzied eyes.

Is this now My Hill…?

As far as I am concerned, the only thing that can be achieved, when both my mind and body are suffused with deep, thick, viscous torment (echoed by repeated, random interference in both ears: stereophonic sussurations of spite…) – as I have stated so many times before – is walking. Apart from summoning lurking asthma, I know there is little worse I can subject my aching frame to. Plus, of course, my depression will ease, the further my journey. And on a morning like this – clear skies and concomitant summer balm; goldfinch twinkling in the hedges; chaffinch in the fletching oaks; buzzard and skylark floating above; sheep lazily grazing (heavy in their winter coats); and cattle uniformly resting in the shallow corrugations of ancient fields – what else am I to do? It is too generous a day to be shackled by sheets and shocking stair-rods of pain.

The first mile is hard: as if battling through stacked mattresses. But, reaching the sown fields, resistance fades, and my limbs begin to move with supernatural ease. Through my second gate, the path flowing beneath me, last week’s fresh cowpats have been grilled by the new heat, drilled by flies; but fudged treachery lies beneath the further stampede of hoof-prints, incised as the cattle migrated to new pasture. Despite the surface-split soil, moisture lurks. I wonder for how long.

Up Hill and Down Dale; or There and Back Again…

It was always ‘The Hill’ – or even ‘My Hill’ – never given its given name. Not that such mattered. When I was trialling my resurrected skill of perambulation, it was my habituation – requiring a destination that stretched and tautened my ill-used muscles frequently, as a baker will confront his callow dough. And not just those slack sinews of leg and arm; but a locus which tantalized my cognitive tendons, too – for, if the place bore no intrigue, it bore no reward.

It was only My Hill because my excursions were timed for those hours when the dog-walkers, kite-fliers, and recalcitrant children would likely be elsewhere: awarding me a selfish kingdom of solitude; but one where I could practice my eccentricities without fear of shame or chagrin; where I could talk to those whose names were fixed, in memoriam, to benches; or to the grazing, scrubbing cattle… – or simply myself. It was only The Hill because it was the only hill: a quarry-shocked crag; a two-hundred-and-eight-metre climb above the grey flatness of urbanity to the Cotswold Way – a deterrent, a border almost, most effective to the majority of those level-pegged inhabitants of uniformity.

Faith, I’ll bear no base mind…

It is seven months and six days since I last donned my fervent walking boots and headed out of the front door in search of the spiritual nourishment only nature can provide – the act of doing so more psychologically and physiologically strenuous than I had initially envisaged. But such challenges are there for us to subjugate… if we are to be alive to our values (and alive for them). Should we let either external constraints or internally-driven apprehensions suppress (or even oppress) our compelling predilections and true-hearted desires, then surely our very identities and individualities are at risk of corruption or cessation.

Tomorrow will be dying…

Here I am, sitting at the garden table, wringing out the occasional, disconnected phrase – with the encouragement of a variegation of beautiful, purring, tiny hoverflies feasting on the pansies, whilst revelling in the scent of proximate herbs, honeysuckle and ivy; sheep bleating stochastically from the Edge Hills; the call of St Mary’s tower punctuating my stop-motion creativity; interrupted by the passing murmurations of neighbours, occasional squabble of sparrows, and annoyance of dogs… – trying to express the joys (and consequential griefs) of being wilfully, ill-fully alive in Tysoe, during an Indian Summer that could dent even my well-armoured atheism.

Yesterday, however, I was a coincident Superhuman. Although – demonstrating the unequivocal effect of medication on the body’s ability to transcend its own physical and mental limits – I must admit that a form of ‘cheating’ was at the root of this accomplishment. Inadvertently, it has to be said. But, yes, I would do it again – despite feeling, this morning, through hyper-overexertion, as if I had gone ten rounds (geddit) with a steamroller… – although it is unlikely such an opportunity will present itself for quite some time….

[The medicine in question has been prescribed to try and reduce the stratospheric levels of my neuropathic pain; and the impact – that is, the frequency and intensity – of my almost-constant cervicogenic headaches. (They’re not really ‘migraines’, in the usual sense: because they are provoked by the huge tangle of nerve damage in and around my cervical spine.) A temporary side-effect of this – which is why some people take huge, ever-increasing, risky overdoses recreationally – is a ‘buzz’, once you reach a certain, individual level. I, though, am at only half the (mammoth) maximum dose – which is where I will stay for the next few months – and have only noticed its energizing effects (initially just a gentle, almost inaudible hum) in the last fortnight: after nearly three months of titrating the quantity I take (because of its potential for ‘evil’). Last week – as I was about nine‑tenths of the way to my currently-prescribed limit – this then-new bombilation lasted a couple of days. But it seems that yesterday – and I’m therefore glad I gathered rosebuds while I could… – was it: my last chance at glory. (Well, until my GP and I decide – if we ever do; and depending on the drug’s efficacy – to head a little further towards its sensibly-imposed ceiling.) So I grasped that chance as if my life depended on it.]

Usually, as the regular reader of this blog will know – however ‘easy’ the average onlooker may think it appears – I struggle intensely to put one foot in front of another: because such an activity exacerbates the already high levels of pain I continually experience – and from the first step onwards. (And trust me, it gets exponentially worse with each succeeding one.) As that poor soul (either the reader or the onlooker) will also know: this doesn’t stop me – when other factors don’t intervene (such as those three-day ‘migraines’) – from battling onwards: always hoping that the reward of a good walk won’t be spoiled by the consequent agony and downtime. Sadly, of course, it always is. (If my abilities were magnified by a factor of ten, yesterday; then the consequences are of at least the same factor.)

Such innate (and well-exercised) stubbornness is probably, realistically, at the root of yesterday’s remarkable achievement – however much its effects were magnified. If I had not already possessed the willingness to push myself, then the drug would have had nothing to amplify. (I obviously cannot speak to the truth of this statement for athletes caught doping: but I think it is not difficult to extrapolate from my experience and draw your own conclusions.) However, it was nice to be reminded of what – many years ago – I could do every day, week in, week out, without harm or effort. And, therefore, for me, my decrepit, torturous state, today, was simply an immensely worthwhile exchange.

I had decided to scale, again, the west face of Spring Hill, via Centenary Way; and then split off, around Sugarswell Farm, to head for Brunchfast at Upton House. This I achieved – despite fighting the slithering mud above Old Lodge Farm (where the thrum of building work melded with the passing cars above and below) – and with time to spare. I therefore spent a happy half-hour sat on a stile above Blackwell Wood, jotting down some initial aide-mémoires about my climb.

Apart from the promising weather and the dispersing school traffic, there was little to mark of my traipse through the village. A couple of brief chats – about the chilly breeze, the forecast, the scudding clouds… – and then no sign of another being until I reached Sugarswell Lane: where the hedge was carefully being flailed. There weren’t even that many birds around until I reached the expansive field of linseed on the other side of the road.

A small portion of this had been recently harvested (the combine now silently parked on the far edge): leaving the soil coated with a muesli-mix of flakes and stalks; but the remaining crop hid small feastings of goldfinches (especially amongst the thirty-three-strides-separated tyre tracks): which I regularly disturbed, despite my best efforts, until they formed a large tinkling charm bobbing and circling above me. They only settled when I did – but what divided them into their separate resting-places, I cannot say.

The only other interlopers here were infrequent, tall, proud stalks of barley – glowing head and shoulders above the main crop – escapees from the margins: where a ready mixture of generously-furnished plants (the agricultural equivalent of those suspended peanuts in our front gardens) would soon go to seed as winter food for non-migrating flocks.

One moment, though, above all, had characterized my ascent. As I closed the gate behind me, before entering the treeline – which I think always looks like a well-organized gathering of broccoli, from the Stratford-upon-Avon road, especially when well-lit – I glanced backward. Or at least this was my intention. I must have stood there for at least fifteen minutes: focusing on various parts of our parish – the sunlit church tower the most obvious… – from the gold-green patchworked plain beyond, up to our idiosyncratic trinket of a windmill. All I could think was how magnificent this view is; how wonderful it is to live here; and how miraculous it was that previous generations had allowed the place to evolve – that glorious medley of stone and brick; of slate and tile – without damaging the heavenly spirit of our miraculous haven.

But then doubt seized me as hard as any physical pain: and I wondered if this majesty could last; if our children will be the last to see, to enjoy, Tysoe at its best. And, yes, reader – despite the temporary drug-induced ‘high’ – I shed a tear or two: because – although I accept that each generation may think their time the ‘best’ – I see the prevalence of money (and its cousin greed) beginning to prevail again: dividing, destroying, dominating. I see equality dissolving; monopolies of wealth domineering and discriminating – …and with the power not just to rend the social paradise asunder, but the village’s physical existence, too. Not only that: but those who would fight such change are being quashed methodically and cruelly. What I saw was entropy made manifest… – and made by man.

Of course, I could thrill in the current material resplendence, and ignore the political shenanigans; roam these splendid pastures, blinkered to their travails, for as long as I am able. But I am not the sort of person who – intellectually – can stand idly by (even if my corporeal existence couldn’t remain upright for a minute or two without agony or vertigo instantly dragging it to bed; or to the floor). I am a natural-born resistance movement of one… – even if all I can do is pen the words that might, one way or another, motivate others to follow….

After a brief, breezy wander around Upton’s mirable orchard, gardens, and woodland, I set off to retrace my steps. Again, the linseed field was dotted with rising goldfinch; but, this time, the challenges of “the slithering mud” were accompanied by the mew of a buzzard, the calls and whistling flaps of pigeons, and the burbling annoyance of a discomposed robin. Emerging from the trees into a balmy atmosphere so unlike Upton’s crisp clarity… again, that view gave me pause; but I was – finally – beginning to wane, and decided just to enjoy the remainder of the walk ahead of me.

This time, as the path levelled out – parallel with the road between Lower and Middle Tysoe, where I had espied a lark earlier in the year – I was suddenly greeted by fifty or so house martins bobbing and weaving along, around and over the tall, untrimmed hedgerow – a rill running alongside it, the obvious attraction – gliding just above the freshly-ploughed field’s surface (as fine as any mole’s tilth), scooping the uplifted insects which had caused me to don my cap. Intermingled with a handful of red-bibbed and deep-fork-tailed, dark-blue-glistening swallows, they seemed unworried by my presence – parting to let me through, and then re-forming behind me – and delighted in their exercise. Sadly, though, of course, as the warmth of September fades, and summer dies away – nothing is permanent… – these birds will leave us; their nests already deserted until next year…. Farewell, summer.

Rape and pillage; rinse and repeat…

“Those stupid yokels in Tysoe won’t be up for another fight,” says Fat Greedy Bastard No.1 (FGB1) to FGB2. “We almost won, last time,” is the reply, between loosely-gritted teeth; “and I’ve already noticed that there are a lot fewer objections”. “Perhaps it’s because no-one can be bothered to fight anymore… – just as we planned. I certainly haven’t seen any of those notices we had, last time, pinned to trees, fences and lamp-posts; nor any of those huge village meetings.”

“It’s in the can, then, isn’t it?” gloats FGB1. “Instead of eighty houses in one place, splitting them over two fields seems to have done the trick.” “I think you’re right,” smirks FGB2. “Those on the Oxhill side won’t give a flying duck about those in Middleton Close; and vice versa. Divide and conquer. That’s what I always say. Divide and conquer.”

“I do think it’s wonderful that we’re allowed to simply walk in to – and walk all over – a field that cost thousands to defend, and just do it all again. Attrition – that’s my keyword. Grind the buggers down; and they’ll just roll over, and let you do whatever you want. Attrition. That’s the beauty of brass!”

So, where are the leaflets, hand-delivered by the “neighbourhood champions”? Are the People’s Front of Tysoe – or whatever they called themselves (The People’s Front of NoIdea?) – still so pissed-off at being found out (or having the Riot Act read out to them) by the Parish Council, that they’re cutting off their noses to spite their faces… (apart from the Great Tew: from whom I must beg forgiveness…)? Or are all we so happy/pissed-off (delete according to political nous) ourselves at #Brexit that we just haven’t noticed? Great timing, innit?! Chilcot, anyone?

The deadline has passed for the planning application that would literally flood Middleton Close were it to come to fruition – which, to a cynic such as myself, just looks like trying to build houses for thirty families who could then traipse their children up the hill to the nearest nursery, raising even more cash for its progenitor. But, we still have until next Wednesday to object to Gladman Mk.II.

All the previous reasons for not granting this permission, last time, actually apply to both applications; and, if you can be bothered, most of the points made in the following comprehensive document (about a 20 Mb download, I’m afraid) – which I produced, with the help of several others, thirty months ago – actually still also therefore apply to both. Copy and paste as much, or as little, of it, as you wish into the links above; and then barrage your local councillor – and of course, Chris ‘Teflon’ Saint, with as much vitriol as you want. (By the way, has anyone seen our MP, recently… – apart from in this week’s Herald, looking rather fetching in one of George Osborne’s high-vis jackets and matching hard hat…?)

That the planning laws are a whole herd of mega-donkeys, in allowing us to keep having to defend the same parcel of land from rapacious invaders again and again, is in no doubt. But, last time, we showed what we were made of; and I pray we can do it again… rather than slip in it.

I am far too disabled to go through what I went through last time – not sleeping for days on end – continually researching the law; producing leaflets; collating contact details; starting this blog, even… – but we would be just as stupid as the two FGBs above assume if we were not to fight back; and we would just get what we deserve. So that’s me done. Sorry.

Joseph Ashby, my much greater and more virtuous predecessor, must be rolling in his grave. Me, though, I’m off to have my head scanned. Literally.

That familiar conviction…

From time to time, I forget that kestrels can fly: so used am I to seeing them simply suspended (the majestic puppets of an invisible deity) – tail bowed, almost motionless, even in the strongest blusters – or merely spiralling (a little like a lazy lark): withdrawing upward for a better sighting of their prey. But, on Thursday, making my way by the Avon, a keen example flashed close by me: gliding (a little like a sizable swift) fleet and fluent across a burgeoning field of barley – winging perfectly parallel with the tips of the green fronds (and only a few inches above them) – reminding me that these raptors’ abilities in the air are manyfold and magnificent.

I had found myself on the route of an almost identical (in almost every fashion) stroll to one I embarked on two years ago: encountering (again) not just my first damselflies of the year (banded demoiselles: as always, on these verdant cow-parsley-crowned banks); but perhaps premature butterflies – including bejewelled peacocks and small tortoiseshells: both of which wouldn’t – shouldn’t…? – normally be around (in such numbers, anyway) until July. (Having said that, I did espy a rather pecked and pale mature peacock, today, torpidly sunbathing….)

I was also lucky to spend a few minutes, on my rather leisurely walk – when immersed deep in stippled woodland, shadows, and thoughts – observing both a chiffchaff (which I heard before I caught sight of); and then an almost perfectly-camouflaged treecreeper – speckled with markings that merged with the leaf-filtered dancing dapples of sunlight on bark: demonstrating perfectly its apt appellation with its characteristic entertaining flits and scurries… – before a friendly chocolate Labrador nudged tenderly at my knees in welcome: craving a little attention (with which it was duly rewarded… well, until its much livelier companion spaniel requested the same – albeit a little less politely…)!

I was reminded of all this, earlier today, by another within-reach windhover – displaying more (to my mind) typical movements… – as I mooched up Windmill Hill (exhibiting my own such “typical movements” – i.e. ponderous plodding, and swaying steps). At first, I was more entranced by a solitary red kite: bewraying not one simple flap of its splayed fingers as it traversed the Tysoe-facing slope against the prevalent easterlies; directed only, it appeared, by that inimitable rudder of a forked tail. (Such poise; such beauty; such grace….)

But then the kestrel rose – although not to a great height – directly in front of me: cruel beak and talons noticeably empty. At first, I assumed it would simply drift, habitually, to one of the many power-lines and posts that straddle the hill. But no….

Soon it dived again: a small pause above the ground; and then, this time, victorious… – although the resultant worm, trembling in its beak, seemed a meagre reward for such unsparing skill. As the bird quivered over the tall hedgerow, not far from my path, I lost sight of it; but wondered if this quarry could be (partial) breakfast for one of this year’s progeny.

Later, coming down the hill towards Epwell Road, joining the witless Compton Wynyates ‘road to nowhere’, I noticed (and was grateful) that the rights-of-way here have finally been re‑scribed – albeit crudely, with some form of crop-killing spray. A cynical (rather large) part of me wonders if this would have been carried out at all, were it not for Saturday’s Tysoe Windmill Run.

And yet the more popular, direct footpath from Shipston Road had obviously only been re-instituted as a consequence of those runners’ pounding feet pulverizing the field of clover-rich green manure as they descended. If my fellow wanderers, today, are anything to go by, there is still some confusion as to where the authentic route lies.

By the way, the reason for the lethargy of my loitering circuit of Windmill Hill, this morning – apart from the obvious avian attractions (additionally, rare yellowhammers; the usual truculent rooks, and cheeping dunnocks by the dozen) – was the long tail of a virus which finally floored (well, bedded) me, over the weekend.

I therefore missed the chance to admire the stalwarts taking part in the above event. However, I was delighted to witness (from my bedroom window) the village’s transformation – especially yesterday, in the glorious seasonal warmth – into Bourton-on-the-Water (or some such similar Cotswold tourist hotspot), thanks to the National Garden Scheme (NGS); and the ten kind hosts who welcomed so many visitors onto their becoming plots. Never before have I seen – or had the opportunity to rejoice at – our “small, blessed corner of Warwickshire” so inundated with such a wonderful plethora of checked and striped shirts, oft-inappropriate shorts, and fascinating (mostly straw-based) headgear!

The Good Lady Bard – who toured the gardens in yesterday’s sunshine (summoned by a full peal of bells); passively gleaning only complimentary reactions: not only to the individual plots, but also to people’s discovery of the wonder that (we, of course, know) is Tysoe… – was exceeding impressed with both the horticultural talent and passion on display; as well as the obvious skill and effort that had gone into organizing the whole shebang.

Huge thanks, therefore, to the marvellous Julia Sewell: whose idea I believe this was; and to all those volunteers whose implementation of her plans was impeccable.

At last, it feels like summer has truly arrived…!

I feared for them; I could not turn away…

I have referred several times on these pages to Vaughan Williams’ evocative masterpiece, The Lark Ascending – and almost exclusively, I think, as performed (increasingly exquisitely and heartrendingly) by Tamsin Waley-Cohen.

It seems, though, that, as I have aged, any concrete glimpses of the bird itself have been usurped by this glorious orchestral characterization – especially those closing, solo bars: climbing, spiralling, fluttering towards the sun; and thence beyond perception….

Skylark populations have dramatically declined in recent years, more than halving since the 1980s. This decline is due to changes in agricultural practices and habitat loss. The Wildlife Trusts are working closely with farmers and landowners to promote wildlife-friendly practices to help the skylark and other farmland birds, such as leaving winter stubble and providing field margins. We are working towards a ‘Living Landscape’: a network of habitats and wildlife corridors across town and country which are good for both wildlife and people.

– Warwickshire Wildlife Trust: Skylark

When I rekindle a generic lark ascending in my mind, consequently, I am consistently taken back to Chiselbury hill‑fort (sometimes also known as Chiselbury Camp) – guarding the A30 between Salisbury and Shaftesbury – where, being the only (frequent) visitor (and thus guaranteed peaceful solitude), I was more often than not guaranteed the display of what can sometimes feel as fabled a bird – this swift passerine… – as the phoenix.

Yesterday – tracing the Centenary Way between Home Farm and Old Lodge Farm – I was therefore astonished and overjoyed to perceive that familiar song: although it took me a short while to spot the hovering culprit against the gathering storm clouds (which would later pound me with heavy globules of hard rain).

Time and I stood there still… – “Long complicated, beautiful song-flights can last for up to an hour and the birds can reach 300m before descending…” – and, despite several short parachuting dips, this hardy male showed no sign of waning, or a willingness to return to earth. Later, as I entered the woodland – before struggling up the horse-pounded, pockmarked quagmire through the tall trees towards Sugarswell Farm (and, beyond, a well-deserved flapjack and coffee at Upton House…!) – I could still hear its elevated echoes. And my day was made; my effort rewarded. All pain temporarily erased.

This, therefore, is why I walk – when, as a physical act in itself, it is absolute agony for me. I simply, repeatedly, put one foot in front of the other not only for the endorphins engendered by such exertion; but for the fortuitous euphoria Mother Nature always bestows.

Wary of the furrows that we’ve churned…

Who can tell me where I am…?

Having worked in agriculture, I struggle to understand those landowners and/or farmers who plant a crop, and then force people to tread all over it, willy-nilly: damaging the young seedlings; flattening the ground; and, ultimately, reducing the yield. Try walking up to Tysoe Windmill, at the moment, and play a jolly game of ‘spot the path’ on your ascent. (Fun for the whole family!)

This is not a path; this is not a stile…

If you’re like me – badly disabled – you may be tempted to take the route of least resistance: looking for a gap in the next hedge, and heading for it as straight as the crow flies (although not today: the northerly wind was buffeting them like a mainsail rounding the Orkneys…); crossing your fingers that a gate or stile lurks there. However, if you’re really like me, and have innate, well-developed sensitivities about these things, you will try and follow the tractor’s elephantine depressions in the soil, tiptoeing gingerly between the green sprouts, and trying to minimize the spoil.

Probably pining for the fjords…

That such a strategy led me to encounter the stiffened, stripped corpse of a young badger seems strangely apposite. If it had been trapped, I suppose it would have been removed. However, rendered paranoid by the deterrence of erased trails – and a pair of rusty spikes seemingly designed to carry trespassers’ severed clotpoles… – I wondered if this too was a warding-off, even a poisoning? The rigid death-pose looked highly unnatural; and I can only pray that the resultant scavengers were more fortunate, if so.

Enter Guiderius with Cloten’s head…

Legally, paths have to be reinstated within a fortnight of ploughing and planting – but, of course, some (I feel I must be allowed to call them) capitalist bastards prefer you not to access their land at all: and will therefore string barbed or electrified wires across defined rights-of-way. Anarchist that I am, I am more than happy to smash these illegal (and anti-social, of course) blockages with my handy walking stick: until I can pass without fear of major bodily harm (and the subsequent Bard-invoked lawsuit).

Theory, one; reality, nil…

Such routes have either been hard-fought-for; or have existed as byways for many centuries. Why should the greed of a few spiteful individuals ruin – as they did today – my enjoyment of fresh air and public access: especially when I know these are effective treatments for both my chronic pain, as well as my PTSD-originated depression? (I therefore returned home more miserable than when I had set off… – my many rude mutterings causing the local, wind‑hovering buzzards to mew in dismay; the chattering chaffinches to blush; and the truculent rooks to welcome me with open wings….)

Round like a circle in a spiral…

Packwood House – what a real path actually looks like…

What a contrast, though, from yesterday! Not only the weather: but every footpath I traversed between Baddesley Clinton and Packwood House was clearly marked, and well-maintained. You feel welcomed (and even appreciated); and you therefore relax (despite, in my case – after a long, enforced bout of rest – setting too high a target; and not doing myself any physical favours – hence the re-stretching of limbs, today…).

Bluebells – you wouldn’t have known, otherwise would you…?

This was strong, sweet medicine, which required no sugar to swallow: especially as the wildlife also seemed happy in the surprising warmth. (My fleece stayed on for only a few hundred yards; and even a thin, technical T-shirt felt too much! Today, a thick, hooded fleece and a long-sleeved thermal vest were no protection from the harsh wind… – although it did help push me up the hill…!)

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows…

(Minus) eight degrees of reparation…

Although my head felt a little like Trotsky’s must have – or even because my head felt like that… – just before sunup (a little past eight o’clock, this morning), I headed towards Windmill Hill to watch the curtain rise on a new day. I was not to be disappointed.

Frozen into the crusted, sodden ground was evidence of those who went before me: deep tractor tyres (looking like a dinosaur had passed by, wearing wellingtons); sturdy-soled boots; the clawed stamps of walked pets – mixed in with those diamond dog‑prints so familiar around here: perhaps lured by the many rabbits visible in last night’s headlights… – and a bonus trail of crisp cleft deer impressions heading away from the footpath.

Very little sound, though – the odd chattering blue tit, and belligerent robin, against a background of commuting cars – and very little movement: even the fluffed kestrel I passed, highlighted by the first rays, was content just to gaze from its perch on the power-lines.

Eventually, the low, undulant cloud would overwhelm the brightness; sap the colour from the sky – bringing rook calls and repeated pheasant crowing – but my timing was perfect: a hearty, cold breath of pale ice-blue; then a blaze of rose-gold, charming the frosted stalks and leaves, warming my soul.

This may not be alpine Buttermere – here is a different kind of beautiful; a daily delight – but it still embraces me as only home can: the rolling layers of hill, fog, light, tilth and rime, cordial companions; the cereal crunch beneath my feet, affectionate assurance: earthing me in nature… yet again.